Edited - Chimney Tops Boulder Jumping

             About halfway between Gatlinburg and Newfound Gap is a large picnic area named after a popular trail not too far away. The Chimney Tops picnic area used to be one of the developed campgrounds within the park. Now dotted only with tables and a few bathrooms, it is still a very nice place to come and relax for a few minutes or half the day. A wide creek runs right through the area as it tumbles over and around large boulders. Some of them are so big it is easy to imagine they were piled there by giants.

            We decided to stop for lunch one day when the kids were still little. It seems the large rocks beckoned to them for it was not long before they asked if the could climb on them. Since the water was low and remained only a trickle in many places, we made their day. Of course, the child in me also wanted to join them.

            They were amazed at some of the rocks whose true size probably could not be seen when the water was at normal level. Up, over, and on to the next one they scrambled and jumped across when the distance allowed. Slowly, we worked our way downstream. Occasionally they would find one big enough to explore further and find it warranted another climb.

            Before long, we had traveled a couple hundred yards down the creek and found ourselves out in the middle of the shallow water. We had to retrace our path upstream to find a place where the rocks once again neared the bank. The kids had no qualm with that if you can imagine. Even then, they did not want to make their way off the rocks.

            Before we left, a picture was taken of them on one of the largest boulders. Through the years, we have intended to make it back here for another lunch and “boulder jump” excursion. The plan was to get more pictures of them on the same rock to show how much they had grown from prior visits. Unfortunately, time and other things have prevented us from a repeat. Maybe it will be possible to get them all together again in the future and add the grandkids as well.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

Edited - Condemned

           The tent used when the kids were little was a two-room monstrosity. A zippered partition could separate the two sides of the tent. This served our purpose for a number of years, but I guess even camp gear has a life expectancy which seems to run out at the most inopportune moments.

            The kids would sleep toward the back of the tent while we would sleep near the front. Over time, a small hole started at the seam near the ground in one of the back corners. Of course, the kids could not leave it alone. One of them would always pick at it a little more as they fought sleep and it gradually grew bigger.

            Late one night as we slept, the weather made a turn for the worst. Clouds rolled in accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder and lightning flashed on the horizon. The wind rustled leaves as it brushed the treetops. As it approached, the sounds of the storm stirred us somewhat but did not really concern us. This was not to be the first rain weathered in a tent nor the last, but it would become one of the most memorable.                                       

            The breeze stiffened to gusts of wind. Trees swayed and our tarps snapped sharply above the tent. Drizzle at first, the rain soon poured from the sky in wind-blown sheets through the campground. Bright flashes danced across the sky and the forest was illuminated for moments at a time. Thunder echoed endlessly off the mountains.

            In the deluge, it happened. A strong gust grabbed the hole just right and ripped it all the way across the back of the tent. Rain poured in and the tent came alive. The sides and top would blow outwards and then back in. When I awoke, the tent’s collapse appeared imminent. A startled cry escaped my lips as I jerked up and looked around. It was a terrible way to wake up.

            Hurriedly, I threw shoes on and ventured into the storm to see what could be done about the tent. In no time, I was drenched and the tent did not appear to fare any better. There was no way to fasten any stakes or line to the ripped canvas. My only option was to pull the tarp over the tent down to cover more of the exposed rear. To do this, I had to untie the ropes which held it. The wind thoroughly enjoyed itself at this point and it was no easy task to situate the tarp again. It whipped around like a sail torn from its mast.

            I sloshed back inside, the impossible task accomplished. Things inside the tent were just as worse. The rain had created puddles that joined together to form a small lake within the tent. They now had all the driest blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows piled in the center of the tent. On this pile is where we huddled for the remainder of the mostly sleepless night.

            The next day dawned with clear skies. Besides the tent, the only evidence of Mother Nature’s fury the night before was small tree limbs that littered the campsite and a few things blown off the picnic tables. After a close inspection of the damage, it was decided the tent had made its last trip. We could stand at the front and look straight out the back. I think it took most of the day for the sun to dry our soaked gear. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was free from rain.

In an attempt to find humor in the whole situation, I tore a piece of cardboard from a box for a sign to hang over the front entrance.

It summed it up with one word, “Condemned”. 

Excerpt from Under the Smoke
 

Edited - Nocturnal Aviators

            The large mound of orange embers under the logs was proof the campfire had been a alight for some time. Dinner long over and smores demolished, we sat in chairs around the fire locked in conversation and laughter. I do not remember the exact topic of the banter, but with kids it usually jumped around. One of their favorites was to create scary stories or retell ones they could remember.

            The difference this night would be seen vaguely in my peripheral vision. It was a sudden and momentary movement beyond the light cast by the fire. For just a second, it was there and gone. A few minutes later, I saw it again in a different direction. I soon began to suspect it was not my imagination. A creature that was alive and elusive toyed with me whether it knew or not. Through the laughter and boisterous talk of the kids I picked up another sound which seemed to occur immediately after each appearance. It was similar to the noise created by an open hand lightly slapped on a picnic table.

            I interrupted the conversation which circled the fire and asked if anyone else had seen or heard it. When prompted to explain, I described it in more detail which resulted in a reaction not altogether unexpected. Convinced it was an attempt to get them spooked, the kids did not believe me and returned to their youthful laughter. For the next hour or so, I kept seeing it – almost – followed by that faint noise of a slap. With my flashlight, I looked and looked and aimed the beam into the nearby trees where I could have sworn I just saw it.

It continued to remain elusive and I was about to wonder if indeed I had lost my mind when the faint sound broke through in a momentary break in voices. All eyes looked at me and then peered into the darkness. Almost in unison, there was a mad scramble as flashlights were scooped up and beams of light resembled searchlights as they illuminated the woods around us.

            After the search of branches and dark recesses of possible thick–leaved havens, lights slowly went off as things returned to normal. It was not seen or heard again that night. I believe it had been was scared off by the “Fourth of July” illumination of its dark world. Its night vision probably screamed in agony.   

            Cup of coffee in hand early the next day, I looked through a couple of my field guides in order to explain the previous night’s visitor. I knew what I had seen was not my rampant imagination and wanted to prove it as best I could.

The answer discovered was a little known or thought of creature. It did not come to mind because I had never seen one before. In fact, guess I never really saw this one either, just a glimpse of its flight.

            I came to the conclusion it was a Southern or Northern flying squirrel. Though both are less than fifteen inches long, the latter is the larger of the two. They do not really fly but can glide nearly 80 feet by use of the flap of skin between the fore and hind legs. They land lightly and immediately dart around to the opposite side of the tree in case they were followed by a predator. This would explain how it avoided to be seen, no matter how many times I thought we shined the light on the correct tree.

The former is more common in the lower 48 states and its range extends from Oklahoma and Texas up to Minnesota and east across the country from Florida to New England. The Northern species is found mostly in Canada but also in the extreme northwestern states, Great Lakes area, New England, and along the Appalachian Mountains into the Smokies. Both species eat mostly nuts, acorns, seeds, berries, and some insects though they have also been known to eat smaller animals. Their call is faint and quite often mistaken for birds.

Next time darkness creeps upon you and you hear what sounds like light slaps on the trees, do not let fear get the best of you. Remember it is more than likely one of the nocturnal aviators of the wild.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke
 

Edited - Skunk Hill

             After the Loop Road crosses Abrams Creek near the western end of the Cove, there is a gravel turnoff to the right for the Abrams Falls trailhead. There is a slope to the right which for several years was affectionately referred to as Skunk Hill. Quite often near dusk, skunks waddled around on this hill as we drove through the Cove on the lookout for wildlife.

We decided to stop and walk around on the hill to search for possible holes they would use as burrows. Before the thought crosses your mind that we were crazy to be in search of skunk homes, keep in mind it was mid-afternoon. From everything we had read and heard, skunks were nocturnal. They would definitely not be out with the sun high overhead.

            My memory fails me as to why, but my mom elected to stay by the car. So, my dad, sister, and I set off into the calf-high grass armed with cameras and binoculars. It seems we never went anywhere in the mountains without them.

            Near the top of the small hill, we found a hole about a foot in diameter. There could have been more, but this was the first one we came across. At close inspection, this could indeed be the entrance to a burrow. The grass around the hole showed signs of being worn recently and claw marks could be seen around the edges. The difficult part to assess was whether or not the resident was a skunk. We could not be exactly sure.

            An adventurous young boy, I poked at the hole and threw things in it. My sister inferred I would be the cause to get us all “skunked”. My dad chastised me for my actions, told me to “cease and desist”, and reminded me wildlife should not be harassed. He also repeated the fact that skunks did not come out in daylight hours. We had naught to worry about. Or did we ?

            As we admired the scenery, sudden movement in our peripheral vision jerked our attention back to the ground near our feet. We were startled to see a dark nose at the edge of sight in the hole. Moments later, a dark head appeared with eyes black as coal. Temporarily frozen in place, we realized the head was not just dark. It was black and we could see the start of a white stripe behind the ears.

            “SKUNK !!!!!!”

            I am not sure if any of us actually screamed this word, but it reverberated in my own mind. A brief pause of shock was followed by simultaneous action as we ran and stumbled back down the slope. I remember one backward glance which in which the skunk seemed to bound along behind us. My imagination gave the little mammal the speed of a cheetah I knew he would be upon us at any moment. I dreaded the awful smell I was sure would permeate around us. 

            Back at the car, my mom thought it was quite comical. The three of us ran like a mountain lion was after us, but the only thing she saw was a little black mass in the grass. If its intent was to chase us, it definitely gained no ground. It dawned on her what it was and the humor of the situation sank in. We were run off the hill by a skunk. We burst onto the gravel and she insisted we stop right where we were. She feared we had already been sprayed, but we assured her that was not the case.

            Breathless, we looked back up the hill. The skunk was now wandered aimlessly around. Other things had attracted his attention and we were completely forgotten. From that point on, we never took the wild for granted. Even in the wilderness, there are exceptions to the rule.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

 

Edited - "Is that the best......"

            The spring of 1999 found us once again in the Smokies. This is undoubtedly one of our favorite times to visit the Cove. Nature bursts forth with renewed life from the smallest plants to the biggest trees. Fawns romp in the fields. There is a good chance to see bear cubs as they scroung through an old log on the ground while their mother watches protectively nearby. The possibilities are endless of what might be seen around the next turn of the road or cutback of a trail.

            Equally unpredictable in the mountains is the spring weather. This time of year does not hold a monopoly on unexpected weather changes, but they can be more varied than the rest of the year. It can be cold, freezing, comfortably warm, hot, muggy, or stormy all in the space of a few days or even the same day. Carry an assortment of clothes in order to be prepared for wide temperature changes regardless of what the forecast is. If out on a trail, an absolute necessity is raingear. My kids were about to find out why I always insisted on ponchos when we hit the trails.

            It was a warm, partly cloudy day in April. We parked at the Schoolhouse Gap trailhead on Laurel Creek Road about 4 miles west of the Townsend “Y”. We took a few minutes to check everyone’s water, made sure all had a poncho and we set off the trail.

            Walking sticks themselves have been discussed at length in articles and forums. Some say they should be used if needed while others say they are useless and only add unnecessary weight. In my opinion, it depends on the route planned. If a trail is known to be easy without obstacles, it is probably unwarranted unless the person needs it as an aid. On the other hand, a steep trail or one with many obstacles might be the perfect example where one might be useful. The obstacles on this trail were expected to be creeks swollen by recent rains.

            The Schoolhouse Gap trail follows the northwestern leg of a road built in the 1840s intended to connect eastern Tennessee with the Hazel Creek area near what is now Fontana Lake on the North Carolina side of the Smokies. The road extended southeast from Schoolhouse Gap up Bote Mountain across to Spence Field. It was never completed beyond that point.

            The trail follows Spence Branch as it meanders back toward the parking area where it flows into Laurel Creek. About a quarter mile up, the trail easily crosses this little stream. The trail slowly climbs from there another ¾ mile up to Dorsey Gap on Turkeypen Ridge. If you remain on the same trail, it will pass near an area known as Whiteoak Sink, at one time the home of several families..

            At Dorsey Gap, the Turkeypen Ridge trail angles off to the west and traverses its namesake before it drops back toward Laurel Creek Road. It was near this junction we first heard the distant rumble of thunder. We turned west onto Turkeypen Ridge and hoped the rain would either be brief or pass by altogether. Though the decision had not yet been made on how far we would go along the trails, Mother Nature was about to have a strong influence on the verdict.

            We had traveled about 1 ½ miles further when the sky darkened, sporadic raindrops began to fall and thunder rumbled closer. At this point, the rain actually felt good and not hard enough to break out the ponchos yet. With fingers crossed, we continued up the trail as it wound along the top of the ridge. However, this was all about to change. It may not have been his fault at all, but we have continued to blame him ever since. Our son Matthew, about 13 at the time, was about to inexplicably alter the hike.

            As our family’s biggest comedian, he decided it would be funny to challenge a higher power. He stopped in the middle of the trail, extended his arms, and gazed upwards with a shout, “Is that the best you can do ?!”

            It is no exaggeration when I say the bottom fell out of the clouds at that very moment. No sooner had these words been uttered when a torrent of rain fell upon us. Ponchos came out of waist packs and we tried to get them on quickly but it was too late. The sheets of rain from above has soaked us through.

            With a smile, Matt quietly asked, “Did I do that ?”  

The answer resounded from several of us. “YES.”

            Thunder crashed and shook the ground. Bright bolts of lightning lit up the forest. The rain blew in heavy sheets that caused us to tilt our heads to keep the sting from our faces. The trail rapidly became a muddy conduit for all the water off the slopes. The top of a ridge is not the best place to be in a thunderstorm, so we began to retrace our steps back to the cars.

            Just when we thought it could not get heavier, our comedian struck a second time. With a glance to the sky, Matt once again yells out, “Is THAT the best you can do ?!”

            An absolute inundation of water from the skies now befell us. If there was any dry spot left under the ponchos before, it was definitely gone now. We looked and felt like drowned rats. Bowed into the wind, we slipped and splashed our way back down the trail. Funny as it may have seemed at first, the humorous aspect rapidly declined. We told him to be careful, for one of these lightning strikes might be for him if he dared be so bold again.

            At one point, the kids went ahead of us a little on the trail. They passed out of sight around a bend moments before a bright flash of light and instantaneous crack of thunder shook the ridge. We could not help but laugh when Matt’s voice came back through the woods, “That wasn’t me !”

            Finally, the road came into sight. The dry haven of the cars would be a welcome respite from the rain. Though soaked to the skin and beyond, at least we could turn the heaters on to shake the chill from the rain. A warm campfire was also in the forefront of everyone’s mind if there was any dry wood at the campsite. The rain quickly slackened as our steps drew us near the cars and stopped completely as we stepped off the trail. In a matter of minutes, the clouds parted and the sun shone warmly. We all looked at Matt and blamed him profusely for our drenched predicament..

My youngest son had stayed at camp with his mom. Upon our return, she told us it had not rained there at all. Distant thunder had been heard but that was about it. The sun had been out the whole time. With half-hearted laughs, we told her the thunder had been an attempt by the clouds to blast us off the mountain because of Matt. To this day, our brush with Mother Nature’s attitude has been attributed to him.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke